Coming Soon!
AN ALLIANCE COMMANDER REDUCED TO A CAPTIVE
Daemon, a Commander in the Alliance, is slowly going mad. Having been hexed by the legendary Merlin in the magickal realm of Broceliande Forest, he now lays comatose in the bed of a witch who is forced to heal him. As a prisoner of Freja’s coven, his only hope of escape lies in seducing the beautiful witch who has the heart of a child, the patience of a saint, and a deep-seated trauma that makes his deception all the more painful to bear.
THEY DIDN’T BURN WITCHES. THEY BURNED WOMEN.
THE WITCHES ESCAPED.
Jocelyn Greenwich is a survivor. She’s carefully and painstakingly built a life out of service to her coven sisters, weaving magick into talismans, tending to her garden and her animals, and using all of that as an excuse to remain a hermit. She’d learned early in life that trusting outsiders only led to pain and heartache. But when her goddess insists she host and heal Daemon, a six-foot-six Alliance Commander, she does as she’s instructed, even though her intuition warns her that the past is about to be repeated.
THE HEART OF THE COVEN
Having failed in his last endeavor, Daemon isn’t going to allow Jocelyn’s sweet demeanor—or his love for her—to sway him from his duty. An immortal war wages, and he’s on the front lines. He gives her a blood oath he has no plans on keeping just to gain his freedom, and once freed he turns the tables on his sweet witch, and she becomes his captive. Can the two find common ground, or will the docile witch surprise them all…
Coming Soon…
Chapter One
Two hours prior to drawing sigils and runes onto Daemon’s naked body, Jocelyn Greenwich had centered herself and purified her energy in preparation to remove Merlin’s hex from one of the most powerful commanders of the Alliance. She’d meditated. Realigned her chakras. Basically got her head in the game, so to speak.
Safe to say she was no longer centered as her finger trailed over Daemon’s muscled abdomen. A bicep. A pectoral muscle. The demon’s skin was absolute perfection. Not a freckle, scar, or wrinkle marred his massive body. His flawlessness was distracting to say the least. He had once been one of God’s angels. Created perfection.
She murmured spells of protection as she drew sigils onto his skin by using a finger dipped in the ashes of saints who had lived and died with a purity of soul most could not attain.
Even with the bones of saints coating her skin and his, her thoughts were anything but pure.
“You want me to set the cauldron here?”
Jocelyn jumped, index finger raised in the air. With the ashes of a saint on the tip, she spun to face Raith with her heart in her throat. “Yespleasethankyou,” she said too fast, too shrill, and far too telling.
If Raith noticed—of course he had—he showed no sign. The pragmatic demon just set the large, black cauldron on the floor and went about his business. The ease with which he had placed the massive cauldron was telling. Especially since it was filled to the brim with water. He was stronger than a mortal. Stronger than most demons. As strong as the male lying prone on her guest bed.
How did I get here? I’m not built for missions of this sort.
Trying to act nonplussed, she was failing on every level. “Thank you,” she called out again as he left the room, flinching when her voice wavered.
She turned back to Daemon, her gaze traveling over all that hard, perfect bare skin, and took a long, deep breath. Why Cairenn had thought it best to bring Daemon to Jocelyn’s cottage was still a mystery to her. Jocelyn wasn’t the witch she once was. She was limitless when secluded and left to herself, but she wasn’t good in a pinch, and she certainly wasn’t good on the front lines of an immortal war.
There was no centering herself for what she was about to do to the demon. He shouldn’t be here, in her small spare bedroom, feet hanging off the edge of the queen-sized bed. He was an enemy. He’d tried to kill her coven sister. Had physically fought her coven not that long ago.
Was the leader of an organization Jocelyn secretly supported.
The Alliance, though in shambles, had protected the immortal factions for centuries. Mortals were not supposed to know that vampires, demons, fae, or witches existed. Because when humans learned of their existence they went straight to violence. Vampires were set out to face the sun. Werewolves were buried under lead.
Witches were burned. Drowned. Beat to death. Their decomposing corpses hung from trees to ward off the evil they purportedly practiced.
The Alliance saved immortals from having to face humans who’d been enlightened to their existence, and from immortals who brought attention to their presence in the mortal realm—first-hand experience, thank you very much. History told a tale of the Salem Witch Trials that didn’t include an integral piece to what actually took place.
The Alliance had come in and cleaned house. And goddess, Jocelyn loved them for it.
Humans involved in the hunt for witches died—many by natural causes. The immortal men and women who served in the Alliance had swooped in and did what they did best, doing all they could to right all the wrongs done to those who practiced magick.
The Alliance had given her a second chance at life. They’d provided her with an entirely new existence—even though she’d deserved a death sentence for what she’d done. They’d gifted her with a fresh start.
He’d gifted her a fresh start, even though the Alliance had sent Daemon to assassinate her. He’d gone against orders for her. Cleared her name from the Alliance’s hit list. If not for him she wouldn’t be standing here today about to remove a hex placed on him by an incredibly powerful mage.
“Did you want the box of black candles or the white?”
Jocelyn slowly lowered her shoulders, trying to rid herself of the building tension brought on by Daemon’s presence. She didn’t turn around to face Raith. Instead she sent a quick, silent prayer to the goddess Athena for strength and courage—or at least the visage of strength and courage, neither of which she could currently claim. “White, please.”
Raith’s voice had brought her back to the present, when all she wanted to do was escape the reality she’d found herself in. White candles represented purification. Cleansing. Peace. Not exactly things that represented the Alliance as a whole, nor its leaders and assassins, but the very thing she needed to bring to Daemon—and the very thing he’d provided her when she’d needed assistance the most.
He’d been so integral to that time of her life. His words and actions during that dark chapter of her existence had released so much of her guilt. Her pent-up aggression and stress.
The things we did that night…
Even in sleep the demon struck an imposing figure. Perhaps even more so than he had back in the sixteen hundreds. He had so much more training under his belt. Experience. Tenacity. He was the interim leader of the Alliance now, not just a commander, and they shared a past.
A past he likely didn’t recall.
Past or no past, if she cured him of Merlin’s hex? If he rose tonight…?
He’ll kill me without thought.
Jocelyn felt Raith’s energy invade the small room once again. He was being so helpful that she felt guilty for harboring all her fears and doubts when it came to Daemon. Raith fully expected her to heal his ex-commander and longtime friend, as did her High Priestess, Freja. In fact, healing Daemon wasn’t just asked of her—it was expected of her. Healing Daemon was her mission.
And she’d never been given a mission before. Missions were normally relegated to Cairenn, Brighid, Nyx…
Jocelyn? Laughable.
It wasn’t that she doubted she could remove the hex Merlin had inflicted on Daemon. There wasn’t an if, only a when. She was as protected as she could be while working against Merlin’s black magick. She absolutely had the power. The training. She didn’t have one doubt about her ability to remove the hex… It was her fear that kept Daemon bedridden. She was afraid to release him from the curse that kept him in a coma.
Because when he wakes up, he’s going to kill me.
She took another moment to calm her racing heart and did her best to extinguish her fear as Raith set up the white candles in the corner of the room. Fear was doubt’s insatiable cousin. Like doubt, fear fed upon itself until it rendered a witch useless. So she replaced the thought that fear had placed in her mind with a more positive outlook.
When he wakes up I will simply subdue him with magick until I am able to call upon Leviathan, Raith, or Freja. Then they can deal with him.
She took another few seconds to calm herself as she looked at the male before her. He was utterly beautiful. To this day she could recall the sandpaper-like feel of his dark stubble against the tender skin of her inner thighs.
Will he remember me?
You’re a witch on a mission not a schoolgirl with a crush. Get on with it.
First things first. For Daemon to rise she had to release him of the hex. No easy feat, but essentially doable. If you knew the who, when, and what of a hex, you could usually unravel the curse. And Daemon’s who, when, and what was Merlin, one month prior, and legendary black magick.
Raith left the room again. Probably to get a lighter.
She smiled when she recalled that Raith wasn’t used to the daily use of magick yet.
She didn’t need a lighter, but she didn’t call him back.
She stood before Daemon with layer upon layer of protection. Though she felt black magick tracing across Daemon’s skin and throughout his body, crawling like a thousand vipers in an undisturbed nest, she knew he was not inherently evil; he was only overcome by Merlin’s hex. Having spent a month taking care of Daemon’s physical body, she’d come into contact with his personal energy enough to know the male was…
Her gaze slid over his body again. Muscles built in preparation for war. Black hair cut short, beard trimmed close to his jawline. She recalled what he’d looked like when he was in the heat of battle. How could she forget? She’d been terrified. Enthralled with watching him move.
So enthralled she’d gotten stabbed for her weak attention span. Stabbed four times.
Athena, her newest coven sister, had healed her of four stab wounds that night. Jocelyn had never told a soul she’d been paying attention to the commander and not the immortals surrounding her.
Daemon hadn’t inflicted those stab wounds, but he’d been in the fight. In the clash between her coven and his organization. He was an enemy, but that night had been the first time she’d seen him in centuries. And though he’d spared her a few glances, recognition had never come over his features.
Oh, but she’d remembered him.
She’d come home that night to her small dwelling in a daze. Left her coven sisters to their mansion while she fed her animals, hoping to work the anxiety out of her body. She’d made a cup of tea and sat with her trauma for a long while until she’d finally fallen asleep on her couch.
She hadn’t fallen asleep to visions of him fighting her coven. She’d fallen asleep to memories of him kissing a line down her abdomen.
The last thing she’d ever wanted was trouble to come to her cottage. Daemon was not evil, but he was trouble. His physical body was nothing more, nothing less, than a weapon devised for war. And she despised war. She only wanted to heal—never hurt.
At least, never hurt again. That side of her was dead thanks to him. And she’d made a promise to herself to never go back.
Look back? Re-live the past in agony? That she couldn’t help.
Head back in the game.
Because of her nurturing spells he remained the same weight and kept the same health he’d had the night he’d been cursed by Merlin. Daemon wasn’t a sickly mortal patient with a feeding tube, an IV, and sporting a hospital gown. Though in a coma, Daemon remained an immortal warrior who was trained to kill efficiently, who’d been entrusted into the hands of a powerful witch who detested violence and war above all things.
The two couldn’t be more opposite.
Throughout the last month he’d consumed nothing solid, nor had he drunk anything, and yet he had no tubes or needles going in or out of his flesh. She’d never taken his vitals. Had never checked for fever. Never peeled back his eyelids and shone a light to gauge his pupillary reflexes. There was nothing physically wrong with him. Merlin’s magick kept him immobile and her magick kept him healthy and in stasis.
In fact, her magick kept his body just as strong as the night Cairenn had brought him to Jocelyn’s cottage.
And your magick can keep him from springing off that mattress and murdering you when he wakes up.
When Raith returned with a lighter, she thanked him profusely and gently asked for privacy. There was no more stalling. The new moon was reaching its peak.
She pushed her shoulders back, raised her arms, palms lifted to the Creator’s Realm, her gaze on Daemon’s handsome face. With a flick of her wrist the candlewicks spread throughout the room sparked with flame. The water in the cauldron boiled instantly. Her fingertips tingled with magick. The hem of her floral dress ruffled amid a gust of wind at her feet.
Jocelyn was in her element.
The light of the candles danced over the muscles of Daemon’s naked body, highlighting the strength in his limbs and the size of his—
She found a spot just above the bed to focus on. Though she’d never fed him food or drink, she’d read books to him and talked to him throughout her days. She’d cleaned his body every day. Even brushed his teeth. Her heart went out to him even though his organization was trying to kill every last witch in her coven—including her.
Then again, her heart went out to everyone, friend or foe.
And he wasn’t exactly a stranger.
Pay attention to what you’re doing.
She squared her shoulders and leaned toward Daemon to pick up the dragon’s egg she’d set at the foot of the bed. Right between Daemon’s spread legs.
In hindsight, it might not have been the best place to put it.
She lifted the egg gently.
The speckled shell of the incandescent egg was warm to the touch, even though unfertilized. The magickal DNA contained within was still potent. The spell Jocelyn was about to use required a fertilized dragon egg, but Jocelyn would never harm a precious, vulnerable fetus. The very thought made her sick.
Because of her belief and intention, Jocelyn didn’t need the egg to contain a fetus, even though the spell reiterated over and over again that the egg must be fertilized.
Magick was all about belief. She wasn’t using the dark arts to bring Daemon out of his coma. She was using a dark spell—but she’d cleansed the spell with words and intentions that carried no harm or ill intent toward a dragon fetus. She was only trying to liberate Daemon of his hex, not harm a baby dragon in the process by transferring the hex.
She’d never doubted her power a day in her life, unlike most of her peers. Fear? Twenty-four seven. Anxiety? Same. Her PTSD crippled her, even though she worked with Nyx, Brighid, and the goddess to alleviate some of it.
She held the heavy, fragile egg above her head, just as another gust of wind came through the open window of the bedroom. Jocelyn kept her eyes firmly shut, though she did hear the whoosh of wind play with the flames surrounding her. Could see the flicker of all the candles behind her eyelids.
She called on the elements first. Air, water, earth, fire. Called on the spirits of her ancestors—what she’d always considered the fifth element. Called on the goddess of purification, health, and recovery—Hygeia—for assistance. Then she used the language Daemon had used before he’d ever spoken the demonic tongue—the language of Yahweh’s angels. More a vibration than anything else. A thought frequency taught to her by Freja. Then she spoke the spell in Hebrew, a language Yahweh had chosen for His people. The language was expressive. Vibrant.
Next, she took the dragon’s egg and slid the shell all over Daemon, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. Slowly. All the while chanting in Hebrew.
“Cleansed in spirit, cleansed in mind, transfer black magick. Release. Unbind.”
After five minutes of moving the egg over his body, she went to her cauldron. She then cracked the egg and allowed the translucent vitellus to spread into the boiling water as she said, “Magick imparted, magick disbursed, I demand Daemon’s release from Merlin’s curse.”
She leapt back when the water sizzled and violently sprayed the air around her. She’d put about four feet between her and the cauldron before looking back at the volatile contents. The water was boiling over the edge of the cauldron, but not from her magick. From whatever Merlin had inflicted Daemon with. The stench of sulfur engulfed the room, causing her eyes to water from the acidic gas.
A low groan came from the direction of the bed.
With a gasp she turned back to the bed just as Daemon sat straight up, his luminescent emerald gaze absolutely terrifying in the soft glow of the candles’ flame. When that chilling gaze settled on her, his lips peeled back from his teeth in warning.
As fast as a bullet through flesh, Jocelyn recited, “Magick imparted, intention retracted, retrace my steps, outcome redacted.”
Daemon’s body immediately crumbled in on itself, and he fell off the bed and onto the floor just as every candle extinguished, the noise of the flames’ expiry an audible sound. The water stopped boiling. The energy of her magick and her spells vanished as though never spoken. She stood holding the cracked egg of a dragon, her whole body shaking.
No. She’d never doubted her powers.
After tonight? She doubted Daemon ever would, either.
_______
“Oh my goddess! What have I done?”
Fucked me up, that’s what. Daemon had never been so goddamned uncomfortable. And to have tasted freedom, from the very witch who’d so quickly taken it away? A new level of torture.
Daemon’s body was twisted, his arm stuck under his torso in a way the limb was bound to snap under his weight if he didn’t change positions soon.
But he was more concerned with Jocelyn.
The first thing he’d seen when he’d opened his eyes had been the fear in hers. The next thing he’d become aware of was the pain of moving muscles that hadn’t moved in weeks—and throughout all those weeks he’d been able to smell, feel, and hear everything around him. Jocelyn’s scent, which changed every time she breezed into the room. Sometimes she smelled like freshly baked bread. Other times she smelled like the earth, having just come from her greenhouse to pick various vegetables and herbs.
Her touch—so soft. Nurturing.
The things she and the other witches had said around him had been interesting to say the least.
But though he could breathe, he couldn’t change the depth of his breath. Though he could hear, he couldn’t respond. And the worst? Though he could feel, he couldn’t touch—and his body didn’t react.
Jocelyn couldn’t see it, but he was attuned to her in a way he’d never been with another person.
On paper, she represented everything he disliked: The coven, the Resistance, the absolute insanity of releasing the fae. Witches used energy to bend reality in unnatural ways, and immortals who could boast of that kind of power were dangerous. The fae should have remained locked up.
The coven jokingly called Jocelyn Briar Rose from time to time. At first he had no clue where the nickname came from, until Jocelyn told him about the Disney movie while bathing him one evening. Once explained, he understood all too well.
Her personality was peaceful. Her magickal abilities strong. She loved animals and had made a home for just about everything that walked, slithered, or flew. And tonight he’d learned her powers were unparalleled. She’d removed Merlin’s curse—and he’d seen that sorcerer in action, fuck you very much.
That healing ability of hers just made her the most sought-after witch in all the realms combined. That only he knew what she was capable of? He had to get the fuck out of his coma to make good on what he’d just witnessed.
He knew why she’d redacted the outcome Freja had asked of her, but he was still surprised she’d gone that far.
Merlin’s magic kept him from waking, but even through his hex he’d felt Jocelyn’s anxiety, which confused him more than it should. She was a green witch. A kitchen witch. She lived a simple life on a small piece of land that was protected by an actual goddess. She baked just about every day, cooked some of the best food he’d ever smelled, and knitted just before she went to bed—all the while keeping him company with old fairy tales and little facts about her sisters.
So where did all her anxiety come from?
He recalled what she’d told Raith the night Daemon had been brought here.
“We believed your coven posed a threat to our existence,” Raith said.
“And he still does,” Jocelyn snapped. “And he’s in my house, twice my size, and ten times my strength.”
“He will not harm you,” Raith insisted.
“You keep telling yourself that. It’s exactly what the Alliance told us before they opened fire on my coven.”
Daemon knew from his relationship with Xanthe that a witch had to believe in a successful outcome for a spell to work. There was no room for doubt. It was more than obvious that Jocelyn believed she could remove his hex—because she had. She just didn’t want to wake him from his coma, which meant without the aid of another witch, he wasn’t going anywhere. She’d redacted the spell so swiftly he hadn’t even gotten a good look at her. She had long brown hair and brown eyes, but as for features? She’d redacted her spell too fast for details.
He heard the creak of the front door. The sound of footfalls were light, so he knew Raith hadn’t returned. Must be one of the witches.
“Jocelyn! What happened?”
Fuck. From Briar Rose to the Spawn of Satan. Fucking spectacular.
“I… I, uh…” Jocelyn stuttered.
Of course she wouldn’t want to tell Cairenn what she’d done. To put it bluntly, she’d gone against the wishes of her coven. The command of her goddess, her High Priestess.
“I wanted to check in on you,” Cairenn continued. “I passed Raith on my way here. He said you were about to start the ritual to remove the hex.”
He actually felt bad for Raith, even though he’d just as soon kill the bastard. To be saddled with Cairenn? Daemon would rather stay in this uncomfortable position for the rest of his immortal goddamned life.
Maybe that’s exactly what his old friend deserved. A lifetime with Cairenn.
And for those two? That was a long goddamned time.
He was suddenly weightless, and the feel of Jocelyn’s familiar energy slid over his skin. She was using magick to get him back into bed. Not long after the weight of his backside sunk into the bed, he felt a satin sheet get pulled over his body.
“You know I don’t mind nudity. Mine or others,” Cairenn said.
“Maybe he does.”
Cairenn snorted. “I highly doubt it. Although, having been around the block a time or twenty, I’m going to have to say he’s smaller in that area than most demons.” The fuck I am. “When he wakes, I’ll be sure to let him know of my observation.”
“You’re only saying that because you think he can hear you. I can assure you he can’t.”
Wrong.
“Ohh, I hope he can hear me and is tortured with the fact he can’t do shit about it.” He suddenly felt a darker energy surround him and knew Cairenn had moved closer to him. Probably leaning down. “You came off like you had big dick energy, but here we are. Faced with the sad truth,” she whispered near his ear.
“Cairenn…” Jocelyn warned.
He heard a huff. “Why won’t you let me have my fun?”
“Remember your homework. If it’s mean or dark or negative, you must let it go immediately. This is all integral to your healing.”
Mean, dark, or negative? Cairenn in a nutshell. Was the bitch going to have to crawl out of her own skin to get better? He wished he had the ability to laugh right in Cairenn’s face at the thought. He doubted even Jocelyn could heal that crazy bitch.
Cairenn made a noncommittal noise. “Listen, the reason I wanted to check in on you—and thank goddess I did—was to make sure you’re okay. I’m worried about you. Are you sure you’re good with him here? We can always take him to one of the rooms in the mansion, then you’ll have someone around at all times.” Cairenn clucked her tongue. “As a matter of fact, we can do that tonight if you like.”
“I’m not leaving my cottage. And…what…” Jocelyn started to stutter again. Something she often did when nervous. “Magick over muscles. What can he do to me, anyway?”
“Wake up and kill you.”
He felt Jocelyn’s anxiety ratchet up. That’s exactly what Jocelyn had been thinking when she’d redacted her healing. Daemon wanted to wrap his hands around Cairenn’s neck and squeeze until her head popped off. Cairenn reinforcing Jocelyn’s fear could keep him locked in this coma for years.
“Such a pleasant thought,” Jocelyn muttered, standing somewhere close to him.
“It’s true though,” Cairenn insisted. “Don’t forget he’s enemy number one. You need to be ready to knock his ass out with a spell.”
Oh, she’d done that and then some. Knocked his ass right back into a coma.
“Don’t worry about me,” Jocelyn insisted. “If the need arises I can keep him…in stasis.”
Understatement.
“I think we should just leave him in that coma forever. Maybe stab him in the fucking heart every hour, just to see if he’d die from it. You know, use him as a guinea pig to see how a demon’s body would react to certain…treatments. We could be pioneers in the field of immortal regeneration.”
When I get my hands on you I’m gonna knock your ugly ass out—
“Mind your thoughts Cairenn. Maybe think of why your heart should go out to him.”
Cairenn had a heart? Who knew.
“My heart…? That motherfucker tried to kill me!” Cairenn snapped.
And he’d been so fucking close. Pissed him off to recall just how close he’d been.
Unfortunately for him, Raven had showed up—with Raith and Levi in tow. More than a slap in the face, he hadn’t even had time to react to their betrayal. Merlin had one job if the amulet was ever taken from him, and he’d wasted no time in blasting Daemon’s ass with black magick.
“Language,” Jocelyn admonished Cairenn again. If he could, he’d smile. “And didn’t Daemon give the order for you to be brought in alive?”
“Sorry, and yes. But what does that mean? Why do you think he wanted me taken in alive, Jocelyn? Hmm? Think about it for a second. Pretend you’re me and you have a cynical mind.”
To torture the shit out of you until you told me where this coven was located.
But there was something of even greater importance. Something Cairenn wasn’t aware of.
Freja had turned her power on Ambrose, and much like Daemon, he was in a coma. Ambrose alone could acquire the other two amulets. Very few immortals knew the realms where the amulets were located. Ambrose, Sven, Phenex, Abaddon and himself, being the few that Daemon was aware of.
But only Ambrose knew where in those realms the amulets were hidden.
And none of the witches employed by the Alliance had been able to bring him out of his coma, so the secret placements rested with him.
Why the goddess hadn’t killed Ambrose outright remained a mystery.
The situation was as uncomplicated as it was impossible. The remaining amulets were located in impenetrable places. Hell. The Tree of Life. Could Daemon gain access to Hell? Absolutely. Then would come the problem of actually finding the amulet in that realm. Needle in a haystack didn’t even touch it.
He needed Ambrose. Period. Ambrose had secured the amulets, and he may be the only one who could retrieve them considering no one could locate Sven.
The only wild card in this game?
Freja.
Being a Creator she could walk right up to the Tree of Life and take the amulet. Goddess trumped Cherubim, and those were the creatures who guarded the Tree of Life.
Ambrose was the Alliance’s only hope. Daemon had originally thought Cairenn would be the best witch to force the healing on… Now he knew no witch would be better than Jocelyn. Fate brought him to this cabin for a reason, and it hadn’t taken him long to figure out why.
If he made it out of this compound alive, he was taking her with him one way or another.
After several seconds, Jocelyn replied, “I don’t know.”
“He was going to have me tortured!”
“Oh, I’m not so sure about that. I don’t think he had anything to do with Cali and Aine’s… Listen, he wasn’t even there when that happened. I think Abaddon took the liberty to hurt them and that his actions weren’t sanctioned. At least not by Daemon. Abaddon used to guard the Pit. He’s probably messed up in the head.”
The redheaded bitch of a witch was right on this one. At the time Daemon had needed to know where the coven was located. The Alliance was involved in a war that included all factions, and they were being specifically targeted by the fae.
When it came to this coven? They already had one amulet. Now they had two. The Alliance couldn’t allow them to obtain all four amulets. Abaddon hadn’t acted on his own. He’d taken orders and dealt them out accordingly. It wasn’t as though the witches had been drawn and quartered. Just…terrified. Very little physicality had come into play.
“Jocelyn. This is a time of war. The rules have changed. And yes, he was going to torture me. Probably to find out where the coven is—and where would that leave you and your precious cats? Could you imagine him shooting Midnight? Bell, Biv, Devoe? Gus or Sam?”
He’d never shoot a cat. Cairenn? Heartbeat.
“I understand,” Jocelyn said, but Daemon doubted she really did. In this, he and Cairenn would agree. The mission always came first. Looking back, he’d have ordered Abaddon to physically torture the two witches until they talked had it come to that. But they’d been rescued too soon. “But I can see both sides. The Alliance polices the immortal world for a reason. The fae wouldn’t comply. The Alliance did what they had to do.”
Unpopular opinion for a witch. But that was the strange thing about Jocelyn. She was wise for her young age. Few understood the dynamic of the few for the many—the Alliances unspoken motto. The Alliance had worked for the safety of all immortal factions for centuries and the fae had not complied.
Peace always came at a price.
“The Alliance imprisoned children. Infants.”
Not behind bars, you dumb bitch.
“Technically, but we’re not talking behind bars imprisonment,” Jocelyn argued. “The fae had an entire realm to themselves. They weren’t hurting for space. We live in a realm. Would you call this imprisonment?”
“Listen, I know your heart is big enough to empathize with an evil fucker like Daemon, but don’t be stupid about it. He’d kill you if given the chance.”
No. He wouldn’t kill her. Use her to gain his release? Absolutely.
Cairenn? He’d shoot Cairenn just for the hell of it.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
Daemon shouldn’t be surprised by the genuine sound of concern Cairenn had for her coven sister. From the stories Jocelyn had told him and the constant stream of visitors she’d had, he knew this coven was tight. Raven had frequented this cottage. To his utter annoyance, she sounded intelligent and level-headed. Nothing like Cairenn. Cairenn had baited him from day one. Brighid had come and gone, usually choosing to talk to Jocelyn outside of the cottage. Very intuitive, that one. Those two spent a good deal of time together. Freja? More mother than goddess. Almost every morning she’d had breakfast with Jocelyn.
This coven resembled a family, and much less the organization he’d taken them for.
“I’m okay. I just… The magick keeping him in a coma is dark,” Jocelyn hedged. “You know because you’ve worked with it. And… Listen, forget about me. How’s Raith? I’ll have to bake something for him. He was a great deal of help tonight.”
“Oh, you know,” Cairenn said. “New relationship, so we’re still in the tearing-up-the-sheets phase. Some days I don’t even leave my bed.”
Daemon let that disgusting visual ruin the next ten seconds of his shitty life. First Levi hooked it up with Raven, and now Raith? How did the man even put up with Cairenn? She was like sandpaper against newborn skin. Abrasive and nothing short of a disaster.
“I wonder, since Raith and Levi are good friends with Daemon, perhaps he can also be brought over to our side.”
Not happening, Glenda.
“Not happening,” Cairenn parroted, making Daemon flinch on the inside. He had this odd feeling he and Cairenn were slightly similar in thought, which made him want to kill something. “He’s not only the interim leader of the Alliance, he’s been one of their commanders for centuries. Besides, he’s a misogynistic asshole.”
And you’re a feminist bitch.
“Cairenn.”
“Sorry.” Cairenn cleared her throat. “Well, just thought I’d check in on you, and good thing I did. Please take your safety seriously, though. It makes me nervous to leave you here with him. You sure… You sure you’re okay? You want me to stay with you tonight?”
“Freja will be here in the morning. Plus he’s comatose, so I’m not worried in that respect.” He heard the rustling of clothes, and having spent so much time unable to see and trying to decipher different sounds, he envisioned the two witches hugging. “Thank you. For being here,” Jocelyn said, her voice muffled. “Just… Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
“I can’t help but worry about you. You’re actively working to release him from the hex, and you’re the best at what you do. He’s a trained demonic assassin. If he wakes up, I’m sure you can take him out at the kneecaps. You can drop his ass in a heartbeat.” Oh she did, don’t you worry. “But please don’t forget… We need him awake, Jocelyn. We need to interrogate him.”
Translation: Torture.
“I won’t forget.”
When Cairenn’s potent energy dissipated, Jocelyn left the room as well. When she returned and put a wet rag against his skin, it was warm. She didn’t talk for several minutes while she wiped away the ashes of the saints, which wasn’t typical for the witch. She was probably overthinking everything Cairenn had just filled her head with, because Jocelyn overthought better than anyone he’d ever known.
More than that, she was probably trying to come to terms with dropping his ass.
They were enemies, and if Jocelyn were a friend of his, he would have said the exact same things to her. What Cairenn didn’t know? He could never hurt Jocelyn. He felt like he knew her, and she was as sweet as they came. She’d bathed him, sang to him. Once she’d brought in a golden retriever puppy named Max, mentioned the pup was one day going to be a service dog, and picked up Daemon’s hand to run over the dog’s head and back.
No. He could never bring himself to hurt this woman. It’d be the same as kicking that puppy right in the snout. Who would have the heart to do that? Just the thought of someone hurting her…
“Don’t forget he’s enemy number one…”
God he’d love to throat-punch Cairenn. Even though she was right, her words were going to send Jocelyn down a path of unnecessary worry, which would lead to him remaining in this coma.
As the minutes passed, he felt Jocelyn’s anxiety ratchet up. The witch was definitely overthinking. The energy in the air around them was unsettled. She finished cleaning his skin and brought the blankets up to his shoulders, tucking him in as she always did before she went to bed.
“Do you know how nervous I am just to walk into this room day in and day out? That’s me. A constant contradiction. On one hand, I believe you to be this brave fighter who’s only trying to keep immortals like me safe.”
I am. Of course there was always the caveat of the few for the many, but for the most part… He mentally shrugged.
“On the other hand, you not only tried to kill one of my sisters, but the organization you’re now in charge of held two of my other sisters hostage—and one was shot. Killed. And lest you forget,” she said, chastising him as a mother would a child, “I was there the day Raven was shot in the chest multiple times. I was seated right next to her, directly across the table from you when your organization tried to assassinate her. I was also stabbed that day as well. Four times in the chest to be exact.”
All these weeks he’d never known what she looked like. Now…
The image of the witch who’d sat directly across from him, seated to Raven’s right, finally put a face to the voice, scent, and touch of the witch who’d been tending him all these weeks. Though months had passed, he could recall her appearance as though she were sitting across from him this very moment and he had the ability to open his eyes.
Because something about her that night had seemed so familiar.
Her hair wasn’t just brown, it was light brown with reddish highlights. Light brown eyes—almost toffee colored—she’d seemed an innocent young human, not a formidable witch. Generous mouth, round cheeks, and the fullness of face that was contributed to youth. She’d cast him several glances throughout the short meeting, and more than once their gazes had met—but never lingered. Clashed more like it. At the time, though he’d been taken by her beauty, his mind had been on the task at hand—a meeting with Raven, her coven, and the heads of the Alliance. Daemon had not been aware that Ambrose, the head of the Alliance at the time, had called for Raven’s assassination.
After the assassination attempt on Raven had failed, Daemon had jumped from the table and started to fight. Directly after Levi got in a good punch, he’d started calling for Alliance members to materialize to the cave. A witch had engaged him shortly thereafter—a small woman with short, dark hair. She’d nailed him against the stone wall with some kind of fire magick, and he hadn’t seen Jocelyn again. He’d had third-degree burns on his arms and the castle had gone up in flames because of that magick.
He wanted to reassure Jocelyn that, though enemies, he wouldn’t—couldn’t—hurt her. Her care for him, forced as it was, had tied them together in ways he’d never be able to separate.
And there was something so familiar about her…
There was a soft touch to his forehead, and he imagined her looking down at him. “I feel like I’m being pulled in two different directions.” Then she surprised him by kissing him tenderly on the cheek, and before he could contemplate that unexpected gesture, her soft whisper so near his ear confused him even more. “I truly hope you don’t remember me. It will only cause more confusion.”
D.M. McClure 